solios ortus
by nimuelsa
Summary: Speculation, awe and utter bafflement dance a wondrous tune to an angel's song. OR: Castiel ruminates while conspicuously without a beer over the glory of Father's work. (and smudges of destiel if you look close enough)


Castiel doesn't know what to feel, really. It's a sort of tranquil feeling that's impossible to describe, because it's just a feeling. Emotions are more concept than feeling, and it's nigh impossible to transmit these feelings across in the crude implements that humans use. To be totally honest, it's just, calm. Serene.

He feels it when he looks up at the sky and then down, where Dean waits. He's leaning against the Impala, and even though there's so much that's going on, it is comforting to know that Dean is there. Strange.

Balthazar never inspired such feeling, more akin to peace and a sense of delicate warmth. They're angels, and they love each other dearly, but it isn't the love that he feels for the Winchesters. His brothers...

He feels conflict about it. Guilt, perhaps, is the closest word that describes the feeling that wells up within him whenever he ruminates on these thoughts. It's not that he doesn't regret, he does. But he'd do it again in a heartbeat for Dean.

He feels intense love for humanity, so much love for the imperfect, delicate, impossibly fragile beings, inhabited by souls and somehow so much more precious for it. Souls are so beautiful, so magnificent and awe-inspiring, the power they hold...

And Dean cannot see the beauty, the light, the love that shines so intensely it sometimes burns to look at him. It makes him wonder, what Dean would feel if he could see his own soul.

But it's highly unlikely that Dean would, really, ever see his own soul. He sees himself as broken, unworthy, and the hatred for himself is only rivaled by the intensity of the light he emits. It's saddening.

Once, he only saw Dean as a duty, a mission. He's not. He's a selfless being who'd do anything to save the fellow beings that walk on Father's earth.

They're all artworks, humanity, but living, breathing and so unique and dizzying to think of or even contemplate. Angels, like Balthazar, who only saw the use in monetizing and utilizing souls for the bare minimum, didn't see what he saw.

He sighs, materializing himself. The sky is a rich study in color, saturated in soft violets and burgundy, the pale blue peeking about, a sunset yellow splattering the horizon into a beautiful canvas. He can still see stars, constellations where pollution hasn't rendered them invisible to the human eye.

It's breathtaking, truly. He can see the mythologies, the spun tales that influence the world, and he wonders how so many other beings that walk on these dimensions and worlds don't see the power of the human soul.

The human soul is the most powerful. Free will, along with the smallest smidge of power gifted by Father, enabled them to rise above all supernatural beings. Even if the supernatural beings were borne of Mother, Eve, the very first female so twisted. It let them win against angels, perfection, and even against Nyx.

It amazes him, and it's sort of sad that nobody really realizes it. But, he supposes, humans didn't believe until they saw, and maybe that was a built-in handicap that prevented humans from toppling Father before he wanted to be, he guesses.

There's no words spoken, but instead a wordless companionship that gives him a measure of happiness. He's recognized the feeling, and perhaps happiness isn't the most astute or ideal of words, but that's how humanity is as well.

The moment slips by, with the disappearance of stars and the rising of the sun, dewdrops evident on Baby, and the appearance of Sam, who comes out substantially cleaner than before. Before Sam was covered in rank gore, splattered wendigo bones and mashed up squirrel.

Words are spoken, references traded, and a remarkable serenity eclipses the car as Dean drives. There's a smudge of whining from Sam, seriously Dean? Can't we listen to literally anything else? House rules Sammy, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. Games are played. I spy with my little eyes... something starting with I. Ivy. Iridescent. Iridium. Idjit, because you are one.

The serenity is broken with flatulence.

Sam struggles to keep a straight face, while windows are opened to let the gas out. Dean wheezes dramatically. He smiles at photos of adorable llamas and kittens, and refuses to give back the laptop on the grounds of flatulence, delivered with a deadpan stare and "You farted, so I'm keeping it."

Dean laughs, a golden, light sound that has Sam huffing and pouting. He settles on playing on his phone, loudly complaining about cases and leads, honestly. Not even professional. Dean turns up the music a notch.

 _i'm actually super happy this even turned out at all, omf. this was rambly and all over the place and i suppose it has spoILERS or smth like that. i just wanted to contribute my gross feelings to the spn fandom. also, shameless promo: follow on instagram mishathology. i used 750words dot com and i wrote this in a... shameful amount of minutes so i haven't edited this at allllll i know, shameful. leave me reviews. i feed off of them._


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